


Kingdoms Rise

by oldtimeyryan



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: (doesnt happen to john or sherlock), AU (kind of), M/M, Mentions of Rape, One Shot, Post-Reichenbach, crime scene discriptions are fairly graphic, reference to canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-15
Updated: 2016-05-15
Packaged: 2017-12-19 04:39:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,668
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/879560
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oldtimeyryan/pseuds/oldtimeyryan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"The name is Sherlock Holmes, and I broke in."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Kingdoms Rise

**Author's Note:**

> beta: rosaisanerd
> 
> Finally! You don't know how long I have been waiting for this to be posted. Obviously, there is minimal tags because there is a lot of things I would rather not have seen until it is read. 
> 
> The link to the tumblr post this is based off of is at the end of the story.
> 
> I love you guys so much, and please enjoy! x
> 
> EDIT: 1 October 2013  
> I have received some comments about some misspellings and words in weird places, along with some paragraphs that don't make sense. I would like to say sorry about all of this, and there is no fault but my own. My beta and I were at stressful points in our lives and not everything could be perfect! Much love to you all! x
> 
> EDIT 2: 15 May 2016  
> as this fic has had an amazing increase in popularity, i changed some tags and am bringing this forward for the post s3 crowd. enjoy!

_October,_

_And the trees are stipped bare,_

_Of all they wear,_

_Do I care?_

_October,_

_And kingdoms rise,_

_And kingdoms fall,_

_And you go on,_

_And on._

**October - U2**

**1981**

*

 

“How’s your blog going?” Irritation flared up in John, and he narrowed his eyes at his therapist. Dammit, Ella. You know exactly how the blog is going. Hopeless, I can’t write a bloody word.

 

“Yeah, good. Very good.” Ella, of course, could always tell when he was lying. Her face softened, which irritated John further.

 

“You haven’t written a word, have you?” Her voice was gentle, and she looked at him with pity. John sighed and let his gaze fall to clipboard resting on her lap. He frowned.

 

“You just wrote ‘still has trust issues’,” John accused. Ella smiled wryly.

 

“And you read my writing upside down. See what I mean? John... you’re a solider. It’s going to take you a while to adjust to civilian life, and I firmly believe that writing a blog about everything that happens to you will help.”

 

John scoffed. “Nothing happens to me.” Ella put down her pen and leaned forward, her chin resting in her hands.

 

“If not a blog, write something, John. A diary-” That earned her a dismissive snort. “Or a story. Anything at all.”

 

“What would I write about?” John leaned back in his chair. Maybe it wasn’t a terrible idea, this writing lark.

 

“The war, perhaps. Maybe a childhood dream. Anything that takes your fancy.” Ella smiled a little as the alarm on her watch signalled the end of their session. “But I don’t expect to see you back here unless the story idea falls through, so... goodbye, John. It’s been a pleasure.” John was already lifting himself from his chair, his cane gripped in his right hand.

 

“Yeah, alright. Thanks Ella,” He reached out and shook her hand once before leaving the room. He wasn’t coming back, story or no story.

 

In the cab on the way back to his flat (which was about a ten minute walk away, but his leg was stiff and quite painful) he thought about what Ella had said. Writing a story about a childhood dream...it couldn’t hurt to try. It’d get everyone off his back, at the very least. He paid the cabbie and made his way up the flight of stairs to his front door. Fumbling with his keys, he pushed open the door to his flat and surveyed the scene before him with a sigh. Beige floors, pale walls, a few pieces of IKEA furniture. A chest of drawers containing all his clothes, a bed, a desk, a second-hand Apple Mac, and a Sig Sauer P226R that he’d smuggled back from Afghanistan. His phone buzzed in his pocket; a text from Harry, no doubt. John ignored it. Getting out his laptop, he sat down and opened up Microsoft Word. He sat and stared at the white page.

 

He wrote nothing.

 

A week later, John was out buying a paper when he noticed that the familiar buildings around him were bathed in sunlight. Summer had crept up on him with all the stealth of falling asleep. He decided to take a walk in Regent’s Park; it wasn’t far, and his leg wasn’t particularly bad.

 

Walking though Regent’s Park, John felt the corners of his mouth twitch upwards for the first time in weeks. The sun was bright and warm on his face, there was a slight breeze, and everything was going splendidly by all accounts. He was just crossing the bridge, heading towards the bandstand, when he caught sight of a familiar face. John couldn’t put a name to the features, but anyone he had once known was someone to avoid; so he picked up his pace, but to no avail. He had been noticed.

 

“John? John Watson?” John winced, and slowly turned around to face the man. “Stamford, Mike Stamford! We were at Bart’s together!” It rang a vague bell, and John sighed inwardly.

 

“Yes, sorry, yes, Mike, hello.” He took Mike’s outstretched hand and shook it.

 

“Yeah, I know, I got fat,” Mike grimaced, gesturing to his expansive stomach, and John realised he did remember a scrawny boy named Mike. Ah.

 

“No, no.” They began to walk, exchanging small talk. John spoke more than he had in months and he realised with a pleasant shock that seeing Mike had made him feel... better. They bought coffee and sat down, watching the passers-by in comfortable silence. Mike looked at the cane and the stiffness of John’s posture before he spoke again.

 

“I heard you were abroad, getting shot at. What happened?”

 

“I got shot,” John answered shortly. Pain flickered through the gunshot wound in his shoulder. He saw the horror and pity on Mike’s face, so he abruptly changed the subject. “Are you still at Bart’s, then?”

 

“Teaching now, yeah. Bright young things like we used to be... God, I hate them.” John chuckled and it felt good, like a weight off his shoulders. “What about you? Just staying in town until you get yourself sorted?”

 

“Yeah, but it’s not like I can afford London on an Army pension...”

 

“And you can’t bear to be anywhere else. That’s not the John Watson I know.”

 

“Well, I’m not exactly the John Watson-” John clenched his jaw as a wave of pain shot through his knee. Mike glanced at it nervously before taking a gulp of his coffee.

 

“Couldn’t Harry help?”

 

“Yeah, like that’s going to happen.” John raised his coffee cup to his lips to catch the last dregs. “My, uh, my therapist told me to start a blog. Or you know, write something else.”

 

“What, like a story?” Mike turned to him, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose. John nodded. “Hmm. My sister, you remember Diane? She could get it published, if you’d like.”

 

“I wasn’t thinking of taking it that far,” John chuckled, but he felt a flutter of excitement in his chest.

 

“What would you write about?”

 

“That’s actually why I came out today, to clear my head and get some ideas. Ella - my therapist - suggested a childhood dream.” Mike looked thoughtful for moment before breaking into a grin.

 

“I remember, one year at Bart’s, Brian Larsson’s dog went missing and you conned me into helping you find it. Detective Watson and Sir Stamford, we called ourselves.” Mike laughed in fond reminiscence, and to his surprise John found himself joining in.

 

“You think I should do it?” Mike grinned at his old school friend and nodded.

 

“Look, I’ll give you my email and phone number. Keep in contact, and I’ll get Diane to talk to you. There aren't many detective mysteries any more, John, so you’ll get popular - probably fast.” The men stood and exchanged emails and numbers, before shaking hands. “I look forward to it.”

 

“As do I,” John replied. He set off home, his head buzzing. The world around him seemed brighter, and he felt like pre war-Watson again. At the flat, he grabbed an apple and sat at his laptop, focused and concentrating for the first time in months. His fingers hovered over the keys and he closed his eyes. Inhale once, exhale, inhale, and exhale. His eyes opened and a smile pulled at his lips. His fingers flew over the keys, and there on the screen was his title.

 

  **The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes**

By Arthur Conan Doyle

 

One month later and John’s first story, A Study in Pink, had sold like wildfire. It was first published in a writer’s magazine, but it immediately got snapped up by an editor who turned it into a book. John chose a pseudonym because he hated the idea of being in the spotlight - no one knew who this ‘Arthur Conan Doyle’ was, and John liked it that way. It was much easier. Mike had been very supportive throughout the process, and Ella actually met him in a coffee shop to congratulate him. His main character, Sherlock Holmes, was a detective loosely based off Ella’s characteristics. Ella told him it how she knew who wrote the story. But throughout all of this, the success, the money and the moving of flats, John’s shoulder was more painful than usual and there were days where he couldn’t walk at all. The tremor in his left hand flared randomly and the darkest days led to John sitting in his room with a shaking gun in his mouth. When this happened, John would rouse himself, pull out his computer and write.

 

It wasn’t until after The Sign of Three was published that John’s life changed forever, and that change was perfect and beautiful, and a little bit scary. John woke up one morning in mid-September, the soft patter of rain on his window. He pulled on his robe over his pajamas, grabbed his cane and went downstairs. He yawned, stretched, rubbed his eyes and stretched again.

 

“Good morning.” The silence in the room was broken by a rich baritone, and John whipped around so fast he nearly knocked a mug off the kitchen surface. Peering through the shadows in the corner or his living room, he made out the figure of a stranger lounging in his armchair. The stranger was tall, at least 6 foot. His face had an unusual pallor to it, the alabaster hidden by a black Belstaff coat and a scarf. He was thin, that much was certain, and his face had a structure that would’ve made Botticelli weep with joy; high, sweeping cheekbones and pale lips curved in a perfect cupid’s bow. His eyes were a bright, slate grey, and his face was framed in curls so dark brown they could be mistaken for black. He was sitting in John’s armchair, one leg crossed over the other. Though the chair was small, he fit into it elegantly. John exhaled shakily, and met the stranger’s gaze.

 

“Um… Good morning. Not to sound rude, but, uh, who are you and how the hell did you get into my flat?” John asked, gripping his cane so tightly that his knuckles were going white. The stranger’s mouth quirked up at the corner and he looked at John with a half smirk.

 

“The name is Sherlock Holmes, and I broke in.” He leaned back, fingers curled delicately over the arms of the chair.

 

“Sher- Okay, are you just some fan impersonating my character? Because, well, you are doing a fantastic job-- Did you say you broke in?”

 

“Perhaps I should ask why your character is impersonating me,” the man who called himself Sherlock said. John spluttered, and then took a deep breath. “But we have no time for that, there is a case.”

 

“What, a crime? You came here to say there is a case?” John laughed in disbelief. “Wow, mate, you are dedicated to this, aren’t you?”

 

“Well, yes.” Sherlock’s brow furrowed in confusion. “The work is all that matters to me, John, so of course I am dedicated, as you say.” John could have fainted. If this was an impersonator, they weren’t letting up on the act. They had the Sherlock Holmes character down to a fucking tee.

 

“How… How do you know my name?” John asked weakly. Sherlock sighed, like John was being incredibly boring. He leant forward, closer to John and those eyes flickered once over his body.

 

“The name above the doorbell told me,” Sherlock answered. “I also know you’re an Army doctor, recently invalided home from the war. You’ve got a brother worried about you but you won’t go to him for help, possibly because he’s an alcoholic, more likely because he recently walked out on his wife. And I know your therapist thinks your limp is psychosomatic, quite correctly I’m afraid. You began writing these stories to heal from you post traumatic stress disorder, but as of yet they haven’t been working.”

 

“How could you possibly know that?”

 

“The engraving on your phone,” Sherlock answered with a sigh. Obviously John was boring him. “Also, you have a text from one Harry Watson.” John mentally shook himself.

 

“You snooped through my stuff while I was sleeping?”

 

“Problem?”

 

“So… You come into my flat; you look and sound exactly as I envisioned Sherlock Holmes, a _fictional character_ I might add, you deduce me from one look and you want me to go on a case with you?” John let out a shocked bark of laughter. “Right, I’ve officially gone round the bend.”

 

“I can inform you that you have not lost your mind, John, and yes - I would like you to accompany me on this case. You were a doctor in the war, were you not? A second opinion couldn’t hurt.” Sherlock stood and crossed the room to the door. “Will you come?”

 

“I, uh... yes.” John didn’t mean to accept, but it was there now and he couldn’t take it back. Sherlock grinned at him and swept out the door, and John grabbed a notebook and pen off a table, and hurriedly dressed himself into something presentable before following him. Out on the street, John flagged down a cab. He cast a sidelong glance at the man beside him, the embodiment of his increasingly famous character. “Why are you here? There are plenty of other fine doctors in London.” Sherlock scoffed.

 

“They are all idiots,” he replied as he climbed into the cab. “But enough of the stupid questions, John.”

 

“Alright, tell me, Sherlock...” John was trying to not sound scornful. “The details?” Sherlock turned to him, his eyes now a softer grey, almost a pale blue. He smiled lightly, but didn’t answer him. John turned away and stared out the window, trying to wake himself up. Eventually he sighed accepting that he was in fact awake, and Sherlock chuckled softly.

 

“Finally arrived at the conclusion that I am real?” he asked, although he already knew the answer. John grunted in a way of answer, and Sherlock smirked, satisfied. They didn’t say another word until they arrived on the scene. Sherlock got out instantly and John paid the cabbie. The rain began to fall harder and both men moved their way towards the yellow police tape. A woman, in her late-twenties, early-thirties, stood there talking with a man slightly older than her. When she saw the two men approaching the conversation died. She eyed them both curiously, and Sherlock smirked.

 

“We’ve been invited, Sergeant Donovan,” Sherlock said smoothly apparently in reply to the look she cast on both men, and the woman laughed softly, though the sound held no humour.

 

“Oh, I highly doubt that,” she said scornfully. “The Detective Inspector would have informed us.” Sherlock’s smirk grew and John looked away from the confrontation.

 

“Apparently Lestrade has bigger problems on his mind, and you know perfectly well this case needs me.”

 

“We can do fine on our own!” the man exclaimed, his face flushing in anger. Sherlock laughed outright, and like Donovan’s laugh earlier, it was humourless.

 

“By my calculations the Yard has the average intelligence of a grape - and you, Anderson, lower that by 34.9%,” Sherlock snapped. Anderson blanched and then clenched his jaw, clearly fuming, but John finally found the moment to intercede.

 

“Girls, you’re both very pretty but in case you haven’t noticed, it’s _pissing_ down with rain, I’m freezing and there’s a dead body in that building that isn’t getting any more dead and fighting isn’t going to get this case solved.” John injected as much authority as he could into his voice. Sherlock’s mouth snapped shut, but there was the faintest hint of a smile. Donovan and Anderson stared at him as if noticing him for the first time. “So I would like to either go home or get this case done. Thank you.” Sherlock stepped forward and lifted the tape and ushered John through. Together, they left the two officers and proceeded into the building. It smelt of mould and neglect, so obviously the perfect dumping ground for a body. Forensic investigators mingled in a room to the left, and John could hear the cameras as they recorded every detail of the murder.

 

“Lead on, MacDuff,” John murmured, and Sherlock went in. The investigators parted when John came in and the smell of rotting flesh hit him like a bullet train. In the room lay a body of a young girl. Her auburn hair fanned out behind her head, adding the rust coloured bloodstain. Her skin was a greyish colour, and even from here you could see she was in full rigor mortis. Her left leg was crossed over her right, and her pants were torn and lay at her ankles. Where her trousers were, no one knew. Bruises covered her thighs, hips and vagina. John’s eyes flickered up to her face and had to choke down a gasp; her mouth had been ripped open almost to her ears, and pinned up in a deadly and eternal scream. The worst part, however, was her torso. Her blouse was a pale colour, probably a blue or green, but it was stained with her blood. Her chest had been ripped open, her ribs broken and winged out of the hole. The girl’s heart had been removed, and it lay clasped in her hands, which rested on her abdomen. Next to the girl’s body was a message written in her own blood, _we could have made it_. John suppressed a shiver. Sherlock looked at him, and gestured to the body. John nodded and Sherlock stepped closer and leant down.

 

“Hold on one moment,” a voice said. John turned to face a grey-headed man, wearing a stern expression. He was pointedly ignoring Sherlock. He walked over to John and gave him an once-over. “Who the hell are you?” John’s eyes flickered towards Sherlock, who was staring at the man as well.

 

“John Watson, I was, uh, told I was expected?” John was treading in dangerous waters. He knew he wasn’t supposed to be here, and Sherlock knew it and the older man did as well. “I’m a doctor, if that’s any consolation.”

 

“Greg Lestrade, Detective Inspector for the Yard,” Greg raised an eyebrow and both men shook hands. “I didn’t know you were going to be here, um, but if you know what you’re doing… God, this could get me sacked, but go ahead.” John raised his eyebrows, smiled slightly and turned back to the body. Sherlock hadn’t said a word. “The body is of Jessica Laughton. She went missing from Sussex about a month ago. She’s fifteen,” Lestrade said, walking over to stand beside John.

 

“Jesus,” John breathed, leaning down and shifting to get comfortable on his bad leg. Sherlock made a soft noise through his nose. “She hasn’t been dead long though, I’d say about… A week?” Sherlock nodded at him, his fingers passing over the hole in Jessica’s chest.

 

“Dead at least 7 days and 13 hours. She was taken from London, most likely Soho, two and a half weeks ago. She was killed here, indicated by the bloodstain. She was raped... frequently... she ran away from home, going by the travelcard in her pocket. It seems her murderer followed her from Sussex and took here at an opportune moment. The murderer will either be her boyfriend - or, more likely, ex-boyfriend - as the message written in her own blood is one of sentimental value.” Sherlock spoke in a rush, moving around the body, his cool eyes drinking in every detail. “You’ll also find him in the near vicinity. He comes back to see his handiwork, but he’s not proud of what he has done to her.” John wrote everything Sherlock said, word for word on the paper. Greg gave a low whistle.

 

“That is brilliant,” he said. He turned around and snapped at a nearby officer to look up Jessica’s family, partners and her family history. Sherlock straightened and stared at John. He sighed softly; Sherlock obviously didn’t like Lestrade and was expecting John to be his messenger.

 

“Um, Detective Inspector?” John stood up, winced at the flare of pain and walked over to Greg. “Look, here’s my number, text me if there’s any more developments… Or cases.” He scrawled his number on a piece of paper and handed it over.

 

“I will, I need guys like you,” Lestrade said wryly. “Just need to make sure no one tells the boss. Oh, by the way, you can drop the formalities. It’s Greg.” John nodded. Greg grinned at him before leaving the room, avoiding Sherlock’s gaze.

 

“Come, John, we have a murderer to catch.”

 

*

The murderer was caught (by Sherlock and John, obviously) and Lestrade arrested him without question. Now Sherlock and John sat in the flat at 182 North Gower Street, John writing his newest story and Sherlock rambling on about how wrong John was writing him.

“’ _Sherlock sees through everything and everyone in seconds. What’s incredible, though, is how spectacularly ignorant he is about some things..._ ’” Sherlock quoted angrily from over John’s shoulder. John rubbed the bridge of his nose with his index and middle finger and sighed.

“It’s true, Sherlock, this is how I wrote you.” John looked at his character - or rather flatmate, as Sherlock had now proclaimed himself. “And I thought you’d be... flattered.” Sherlock snorted and threw himself dramatically onto the sofa, his long legs hanging over one of the arms. John just smiled fondly and went back to writing. Sherlock looked over at John, his eyes raking over his form. Ever so slightly, John would flex one shoulder and stretch out one leg. Sherlock sat up, steepled his fingers and rested his chin on them.

“John.” There was no answer, and Sherlock frowned. “John!” he repeated with more force, which earned him a satisfying groan of frustration and John turned to him.

“Yes?”

Sherlock grinned at him, licked his lips and did one more scan of his body before proceeding. “Afghanistan or Iraq?” His eyes were glinting, and he was staring at John intently _. Please answer, I’m trying to help and it is disgusting but you’re worth it, John Watson. I know you are_.

“Sherlock…” John groaned, and he looked up to meet his eyes. He saw the message Sherlock was trying to get through to him, and his lips quirked slightly. “Afghanistan.”

“You were invalided home at least six months ago, yet the gunshot wound that caused it has not fully healed yet. Your limp is bad, but you don’t ask for a chair when you’re standing, like you’ve forgotten about it, which means it’s completely psychosomatic. Or rather, it was.” Sherlock smirked at this last part before continuing. “You won’t go to your brother Harry for any sort of help, because what help could you get from an alcoholic? You don’t approve of him, but you liked his wife. He wouldn’t approve of your decision to leave your therapist, so you’re not going to tell him. Although, I suggest sending him there in your place.” Sherlock finished with a flourish, and flung himself back onto the sofa. John gaped at him.

“You, are brilliant.” John pointed his finger at him. “You got that from, what, my phone, limp and..?”

“Tan line,” Sherlock said smugly. John laughed.

“And you were spot on about all of it, too - except one thing.”

“Hm?”

“Harry’s short for Harriet.” With that, John turned back to his computer, chuckling to himself while Sherlock just stared. John adjusted Sherlock’s characterization (albeit only slightly) and within two weeks Arthur Conan Doyle released his third book: _The Adventure of the Noble Heartbreaker._

*

“Bored!” Sherlock shouted, pointing the gun at the wall and pulling the trigger, the bullet embedding itself in the forehead of the yellow smiley face painted there. Three more shots went off, and Sherlock heard the door to the flat open. John came up the stairs, groceries in hand. He wasn’t using his cane these days - Sherlock had been right about John’s limp and it had gone by the second case. The cane was buried under most of Sherlock’s mess and had been temporarily forgotten about.

“Jesus, Sherlock!” John walked over and took the gun from the detective’s hand. “That is my wall you’re shooting at!”

“ _Our_ wall,” Sherlock corrected sulkily. “I live here too; therefore everything here in this flat is ours, so I can do what I wish with it.” John put the bags of shopping in the kitchen and sighed, grabbing his phone.

“Sherlock, you’ve only been here five months!” John tried to sound angry but he just sounded fond, like one might when chastising a lover. John’s stomach gave a painful flutter at the snort his sentence received. “That’s hardly enough time to…” His voice trailed off as his phone vibrated. He unlocked the phone and stared at the message. “Sherlock!” There was a shift of weight; the sound of feet moving over the floor and Sherlock was at John’s shoulder, one of his hands resting on his waist. John swallowed, his mind focused completely on the point of contact and the warmth of Sherlock’s hand as he showed him the text.

“Case,” Sherlock breathed happily. In another moment he was in the living room, pulling on his coat. “Leave the shopping, John! Come, we’ve been summoned.” John sighed, pocketed the phone - and his gun - and off they went again.

The taxi ride was quiet, though Sherlock looked like he was positively glowing. John was happy he wasn’t in one of his black moods, although this case couldn’t have come soon enough. Sherlock had been irritable and had heard him utter a maximum of four words in the past seven days and John, despite trying to bury the feelings blooming in his heart, tried to make Sherlock talk, eat, do anything human. Now that Sherlock was happier, John was too.

The cab stopped and John opened the door, his fingers briefly brushing Sherlock’s. The younger man smiled, and held them there longer before letting John out of the cab. Mentally shaking himself, he waited for his friend and they made their way to the alley. Greg was waiting out the front, and when he saw them he smiled.

“Thank God you’re here,” Greg said, letting them beneath the tape. “These guys don’t know a thing, I tell you.” He rolled his eyes and led them to the bodies. Two men, aged 25 and 31 lay nestled up against each other against the right wall of the alley. They looked like they could be cuddling if it wasn’t for the bullet wounds in the centre of their foreheads and their eyes gouged out. Sherlock swept over, while John stood back ready to relay Sherlock’s findings. Sherlock went on to say that these two men were lovers; their killer was taking it into his own hands to rid the world of homosexuality and the gouging of their eyes signified that the wandering eyes of shirt-lifters would never wander again, and these would not be the last bodies they will find. John relayed it word for word to Lestrade, having known that Lestrade wouldn’t acknowledge anything Sherlock said. With a wave of greatcoat, Sherlock swept out of the alley.

John sighed dejectedly. “I’ll text you if I find out anything.” Lestrade waved him away with his hand, smiling softly. Something twanged in John’s mind, but he brushed it away and left with a nod at his friend. Sherlock was waiting impatiently on the curb, and glared angrily at John when he joined him.

“Are you quite finished socializing?” he snapped, and John rolled his eyes.

“Unlike you, Sherlock, I take time to have friends.” He flagged down a passing cab and they both got in. “182 North Gower.”

Sherlock pouted for the whole trip home and flounced into the flat, leaving John to pay and then deal with his incessant ramblings about the case and his childish mood. For the three days afterwards, John got him to eat a slice of toast and have a cup of tea before Sherlock stopped talking mid-rant.

“Ah!” he exclaimed, and he pulled on his coat. “Come along John, I know where the killer is!”

John heaved himself to his feet, Sherlock’s timing impeccable. Of course they were going to go running off into danger at the precise times John was going to confess his feelings for Sherlock—in the stories of course, because even after knowing him for five months John couldn’t possible have feelings for the madman (although he’d think himself an idiot for thinking that too)—and of course something would happen that would cause that confession to happen anyway. Sherlock was sitting in a cab when John got downstairs and he was practically vibrating with excitement. The cab trip was quiet, and even though it was short, John could have sworn black and blue it took a day and a year to get to their destination.

Which turned out to be a very popular gay bar in Soho. John stared at it, his jaw slack. Of course the killer would be getting his victims from a gay bar. Hardly a difficult deduction, Sherlock. John threw some money in the cabbie’s direction and got out, falling into step with Sherlock’s elegant stride.

“John,” Sherlock whispered in his ear as they stood at the door. “Do not act surprised if I do something that might suggest we are sleeping together. Play along, if you don’t mind.”

“Are you insane?!” John hissed. “Are you trying to get us abducted?” Sherlock shot him an ‘is that a bad thing’ look. John took a deep breath, angry and bemused, and let Sherlock take his hand and pull him in. The music was pounding, some new age song with a catchy bassline. Men and women were dancing together, the woman grinding against one another and snogging in corners, against banisters, even in the middle of the dance floor. Men were doing the same, although John caught eye of one bloke getting tossed off in his pants, and he looked like he was about to come like a teenager. John turned to face Sherlock, whose eagle gaze was focused on the bar. “Who or what are we looking for, Sherlock?”

“Someone who is trying too hard to fit in, possibly one who the gay community would call a ‘bear’,” Sherlock replied, still firmly holding onto John’s hand. “He will be alone, watching, but not interested.”

“There’s plenty of guys here like that,” John looked around the room, trying not to focus on the heat coming from Sherlock’s palm. Sherlock huffed in annoyance and intertwined their fingers. John stifled a gasp whilst Sherlock didn’t seem to notice.

“Come dance with me, John,” he murmured in John’s ear, his breath ghosting over the shell of his ear and down his neck. John suppressed a shiver and let Sherlock lead him. The song had changed, but it still had a thumping bass that was giving John a headache. The lighting didn’t help much either. They were bright shades of red, pink, yellow, green, blue and purple, scanning different shapes along the vinyl dance floor. Sherlock took both of John’s wrists in his long fingers and brought his right one to his neck, brushing the pulse point. If Sherlock felt it accelerate against his fingertips, he didn’t show it. His hands slowly moved up his arms, the corner of his lips pulling. His hands ended up on his jaw, and he cupped it, holding John’s gaze determinedly. He started to sway in time with the music, his whole body rolling with the bassline. John didn’t know if this was part of the act or not, but Sherlock’s face was more open than he had ever seen it. The heat in his gaze was intense, like he wanted John almost as much as John wanted him. “John, you’re standing completely still.” His hands moved down to his hips and he started making John move. John’s body caught onto the beat almost instantly and he decided his should do something with his arms, which hung stiffly at his sides. He slung them around Sherlock’s waist, and they seem to slot into place perfectly, nestled in the curve of hip. They moved together, almost the one person. The room went dark and a flashing white light lit the dancers up. It was like watching a movie, frame-by-frame, watching half naked bodies grind and pulsate. Sherlock was bathed in it, his unearthly features glowing and his movements changing every flash. The bassline got deeper, and Sherlock’s body was moving with every beat and John just wanted to kiss him.

That was until the light changed back and he saw a man in his late-forties, wearing a cowboy hat and open vest, exposing his chestful of body hair.

“Sherlock!” John whispered urgently. “I think I’ve found him!” Sherlock smirked lightly and turned his head around a fraction, getting the man in his line of sight.

“Yes, well done John,” Sherlock breathed, his face stony and impassive once more. What was unexpected was the brush of lips on his forehead and then his breath back on his ear. “You are improving.”

John knew when to accept praise when he got it, and his heart swelled. The man passed them, heading toward a young male couple. They both looked at him and smiled prettily, and they all headed out of the door. Sherlock’s body language changed, and he grabbed John’s hand again, pulling him through the mass of writhing bodies. The cold night air was a biting reassurance of what they were here to do. John couldn’t see anyone, but Sherlock made a noise of impatience and raced off, and what else could he do but follow?

They ended up running through three busy streets before catching sight of the three going into an alley. John exhaled on an explicit, and Sherlock rolled his eyes. His hand went into his coat pocket and he pushed John’s Sig into his hand.

“Be prepared to use it,” Sherlock said, before pulling him into the alley again. John pocketed the gun, swallowing. It was dark and it smelt wet and musty. It was quiet, save the shuffles of the sleeping homeless.

“Mr. Holmes,” a dry voice came from against the wall. Sherlock spun towards it, and leaned down towards a homeless man who whispered something in his ear. Sherlock reached into his pocket and gave the man a fifty. He smiled, showing his missing teeth and Sherlock swept along. John groaned and followed him, hoping he wouldn’t lose him in the dark, but with Sherlock, it was like he disappeared into the night, actually became it. It was a little disconcerting. As example as such, John ran into Sherlock without seeing him. Sherlock turned around and cupped his face, his eyes wide.

“John,” he murmured. “We are close. He knows that we followed him, but not why. Do not make a sound.” And all of a sudden Sherlock was kissing him. John’s head began to go fuzzy and he almost forgot to reciprocate. Sherlock pushed him against a nearby wall, pushing his knee between John’s thighs, startlingly close to John’s crotch. John’s breath caught in his throat, and Sherlock gave a low chuckle. Their lips parted, but John didn’t open his eyes. He blindly sought them out, earning himself a few brushes and the meeting of tongue.

“Sherlock…” John murmured, even though he didn’t trust his voice. “Isn’t this wasting time?” Sherlock stroked his fingers through John’s hair, a smile on his lips as he kissed him again. John pushed his fingers into the wayward dark curls, clenching them softly in fists to keep him there.

“Yes,” he murmured. “But it will be worth it, believe me.” Their lips met again, harder than before. Sherlock’s bottom lip was caught between both of John’s and he let out a slight moan when John bit it. John turned his head a little for better leverage and Sherlock’s tongue came into contact with his again. Having Sherlock’s tongue inside his mouth, moving against his own, wasn’t at all a discomfort. Nor was the fact that he was being kissed by a man. Thoroughly kissed, he might add. His half hard prick was being rubbed by Sherlock’s knee every so often, and sparks of pleasure made John shiver with anticipation.

Then it was over. Sherlock pulled back from him, panting slightly. John ran his tongue over his lips. They tasted like Sherlock.

“That should be sufficient,” he said, clearing his throat. He gave John a quick piercing gaze and John felt his blood boil. Sherlock nodded once and started walking again, before stopping, going back and taking John by the hand. Their fingers intertwined like it was second nature, and Sherlock half-smiled at him. John’s head was still buzzing pleasantly and he let Sherlock lead him onward. When they neared the end of the alley, they heard a muffled cry and a deep voice spewing profanities. Sherlock’s hand slipped out of his as he went into full battle mode. They rounded the corner, seeing the two young boys from the club gagged and tied up, tears rolling down their dirty faces and one with blood running down his cheek. The man from the club turned when he heard someone else approaching.

“Ah,” he exhaled, stepping back from the boys and turning his body completely to Sherlock and John. “I thought it would be you.” John met the eyes of one of the blokes, who let out a low whimper. Instantly, he thought of an idea - albeit a stupid one - but one that may just work.

“Well, you did kind of just walk out of the club with two of our friends, and seeing as this is a nice spot for back alley shags… I mean, we had the same idea,” he gestured to his most likely kiss swollen lips and he raised his eyebrow at the murderer. Sherlock was staring at him, and if they had been alone, and if Sherlock less… Sherlock, he would have been gaping at him like a fish. “So we thought we’d come see what fun we were missing out on. You don’t look like one for bondage though.” He nodded to the older man, smirking in what he hoped was a suggestive way. And if the man pulling out a gun and pointing it at John was any reward for success, well, John got it.

“Don’t fuck with me, faggot,” he snapped, pulling the safety off. The younger men sobbed behind their gags. “I’m going to kill you, and then I’m going to kill them, and I’m going to make your pretty boy watch before I kindly shoot the memories from his brain.” John felt himself pale, but he didn’t back down. He had been to war, for god sake. He slowly reached into his pocket, and pulled the gun out, levelling it with the other.

“I don’t care if you think you’re doing the world a favour by killing every homosexual in sight,” Sherlock spoke up from John’s right, “but you are committing serial murder and that usually warrants a life sentence.”

“Don’t pretend you care at all, Holmes,” the man snapped, momentarily confusing John. How did he know who Sherlock was? “Don’t even pretend you care about him,” he gestured to John with the gun. Sherlock stiffened. “But… Does he care about you?” He moved the gun and focused it on Sherlock’s forehead. Sweat began forming on John’s brow, and he had to steel himself to stop from shaking. The gun went off…

…it would have been a hit if the man hadn’t been knocked away by one of the victims. The gun was fired a second time, barely avoiding hitting John in the ankle. Sherlock stood, expression stony. John made sure he hadn’t accidentally been hit. Keeping the gun trained on the murderer, he threw his phone to Sherlock with an order to text Lestrade and he untied the young men. There was another order to call 999 for an ambulance. After making sure the men weren’t in danger, he stood over the murderer again, clicking his safety off.

“Don’t threaten Sherlock Holmes in front of me,” John hissed. There was a sharp intake of breath from somewhere but John didn’t turn to see the source. Lestrade arrived in less than five minutes, an ambulance a bit after that. The whole ordeal was fairly anticlimactic. Sherlock avoided giving a statement, and John felt a sudden need to hold him, soothe over his skin and heal the scars and access his damage from tonight. He wanted to love him, and scold him, and live inside him.

“Look, Greg, I’m knackered. I’ll come by tomorrow and give you the statement, yeah?” Lestrade stopped speaking instantly, and his brown eyes brightened.

“Yeah, alright,” he replied. After a few moments, he grinned at his friend. “Love suits you, John. I hope we get to meet the lucky bird soon.” With a wink, he let John go. Sherlock was waiting for him, but they didn’t speak until they were back in the lounge room of 182. Sherlock shrugged off his coat and unwound his scarf, not taking his eyes off John.

“You, uh,” Sherlock cleared his throat, looking lost for words. “You said something, in the alley, to the murderer.”

“I said a lot of things to the murderer, Sherlock,” John replied, not moving from his spot.

“About me being threatened,” Sherlock continued as if John hadn’t spoken. “You said, ’Don’t threaten Sherlock Holmes in front of me.’ What does that mean?”

John stared at his friend before stepping forward, letting his eyes travel up Sherlock’s torso until they met his piercing gaze. “It means I’m not going to listen to your life being threatened when I’m around.”

“Sentiment?”

“Sentiment,” John confirmed, placing a hand on Sherlock’s cheek. “I was worried, scared even, tonight, when he held the gun at your head.”

“John-”

“I could have lost you. And I’m not going to do that, not after I’ve just found you.”

“The bullet missed me by at least 30 centimetres,” Sherlock said slowly, his voice a low rumble. John suppressed a shiver as his breath ghosted over his wrist. “I should have been worried about you.”

“Oh, my-” John made a noise deep in his throat and he leaned up and kissed Sherlock. Sherlock didn’t freeze like John did in the alley. He kissed back, instantly and warmly, his arms going around John’s waist and closing the rest of the space between them. This kiss was nice, nothing like the tongue-and-teeth earlier in the night. Sherlock pulled away, his fingers playing with the wool of John’s jumper.

“Do you want this?” Sherlock murmured, his lips brushing John’s with every word.

“Oh, God, yes,” John responded before kissing him again, the heat and hardness returning. John’s interest peaked again and he rubbed his hips against Sherlock’s, moaning when he felt the outline of his erection against his own. Sherlock’s fingers slid into his hair, massaging John’s scalp as they kissed. Then they were stumbling back, and the back of John’s knees hit his bed. Sherlock used his height advantage to get John lying down and then he was on all fours over the top of him. The kiss stopped, and Sherlock leaned his forehead on John’s.

“John,” he whispered.

“Just… Sherlock, I’m… Not going to, you know… Last long…” Sherlock looked over him, and smiled.

“Good,” He sat back on his legs, and he undid his shirt. John closed his eyes and blindly removed Sherlock’s, a hurried movement that almost tore Sherlock’s shirt into pieces. Sherlock leaned down and pressed his mouth onto John’s Adam’s apple and sucked softly. John moaned again, arching his hips to find something to grind against, relieve the pressure growing in his jeans. He found Sherlock’s stomach, and huffing through his nose, he rubbed. Sherlock’s intake of breath was felt on this throat and then his mouth was gone. John closed his eyes as Sherlock pressed himself down upon him, matched the grind. They moaned in unison and Sherlock did it again.

“Sherlock, I-” Sherlock cut him off with an opened mouth kiss, leaving John momentarily breathless. He then pulled away and unbuckled John’s belt, and John opened his eyes a fraction to watch the leather slip out of the loops and through the pale fingers. He let his head fall when Sherlock unbuttoned and unzipped his pants and slid them down his thighs. He didn’t have to wait for his underwear to be removed and for Sherlock to be naked, because it happened in what seemed like a split second. Sherlock kissed him again, clumsier than before, and he slipped his hand between them and began rubbing both the erections he found there. John pressed his head down into the pillows and he threw his arm over his eyes, his face red with arousal and embarrassment. The noise Sherlock made was a mix between a laugh and a moan, and after a few firm strokes, he stopped.

“Sit up. We’ll do this together.” Sherlock said when John looked at him in distaste. He gave him another kiss, a softer one. With that, what more could John do but comply? He sat up and Sherlock leaned over him, his hand returning to John’s penis. John moaned again, and reached forward, grasping Sherlock’s own in his hand. Together, they stroked. John’s whole body was on fire with sensation, Sherlock’s fingers against him, his breath on his gnarled shoulder, his weight in his palm.

Blindly, John searched for Sherlock’s lips. They knocked heads once; bumped noses and John missed his lips completely at one point, kissing his chin, but eventually their lips met, hungry and passionate. John rolled his hips into Sherlock’s hand, his movements on Sherlock’s arousal becoming erratic, because he knew he would be finished soon and he wanted Sherlock right there, with him the entire way. A low burning bubbled in John’s abdomen, and he squirmed a little to Sherlock’s touch. Sherlock half-smiled through the kiss, thrusting his hips into John’s hand and he did something amazing with his hand-- _oh, God_ , he was there. John’s body stilled then arched as Sherlock stroked his orgasm through and then he was over the edge with him, the kissing long forgotten, just the mingling of breaths and sweat and semen.

John dropped his hand and slumped down as Sherlock pulled off him to go get a cool towel. He lay next to John and wiped them both down, before throwing it somewhere across the room and placing his head on John’s shoulder. John himself was still riding the high of a bloody brilliant hand job, and moved his fingers lazily through Sherlock’s wayward curls. Sherlock made a content noise and John felt himself falling asleep. Oh, this moment could go on forever.

*

Four weeks passed, and despite what had happened nothing changed between the friends. Sure, they shared a few heated kisses but it never led anywhere. John pretended not to be concerned, but he couldn’t deny the fact that he felt his heart being chipped at slowly every time Sherlock avoided anything romantic. But John never brought it up; he just went along with it.

But in a moment, his opinion on Sherlock’s thoughts changed. He was sitting at his desk, laptop open and his fingers jumping across the keys. Sherlock was sulking on the couch- Lestrade hadn’t brought them any ‘interesting’ cases in two weeks. John was now writing his fourth book, _A Scandal in Belgravia_. And he was introducing Sherlock’s love interest, Ms. Irene Adler. He was doing this in a way of informing his readers of his and Sherlock’s… Relationship. He wasn’t going to make the love interest himself, now would he? That would be wrong on a lot of levels.

As John wrote the first meeting between Ms. Adler and Sherlock, his subject was leaning over his shoulder, critically scanning the chapter. He frowned at one point, then pouted, then looked confused.

“A woman? _The_ Woman?” he questioned.

“Yes, Sherlock, The Woman,” John mocked. “It’s time that we introduced your love life, don’t you think?”

“Why?” Sherlock pulled back from him, but John could still feel his breath against his ear. “Why would you think I need another love interest, John?”

John choked. “Another?!”

“Yes,” Sherlock’s breath ghosted down his jawbone, like a caress. “Ms. Adler would rather put a damper on our relationship, wouldn’t you say?”

“Sherlock…” John turned to look at his best friend-slash-part time lover-slash-mad as fuck flatmate. His impossible eyes were open and honest, his features slack and vulnerable. “Are you saying…?”

“If our life were a book, which in my case, it is, you would be my love interest, yes that is what I am saying.”

John laughed softly, half out of relief and half of surprise. Sherlock just smiled softly at him, and this felt like a moment that no one else would ever see, because it was just the two of them, and it always would be.

Sherlock kissed him first, and John felt his heart stitch and heal and glow, his body igniting with Sherlockian fire and everything was perfect and this moment was an eternity…

Until his mobile trilled next to him. Sherlock pulled away from him, his elegant hand cupping John’s cheek. John smiled lightly at him before pulling away and grabbing his phone.

“Lestrade. Case.” John said, standing up. Sherlock’s features morphed into his ‘finally something interesting is happening in my life’ face and he grabbed his coat and practically flew down to the street. John laughed softly to himself and left the room, hailed a cab and held Sherlock’s hand the whole trip. Sherlock was looking out the window, but John could see him smiling.

The case was mediocre, and even John could admit that, and it was solved in sixteen hours. The wife was having an affair and her husband found them together, stabbing both the wife and the other man. So they returned to the flat, John heaved out some leftover Indian and served it to Sherlock, who just nibbled at it, content to simply stare at John as he ate and typed away. John knew he was watching, and he found himself writing this particular scene with Ms. Adler and Sherlock more intimately than he first thought. It was nice.

Almost three hours later, Sherlock was behind John, kissing the back of his neck. John closed his eyes and sighed.

“Sherlock, I need to get this done soon, you know,” he muttered, but his hands were already moving to close the laptop. Sherlock made a noise behind his ear. John closed his laptop, stood and turned around, bringing Sherlock with him.

“I am just giving you… inspiration,” Sherlock smirked as John grabbed his face and kissed him hard. Sherlock’s hands went to his hips, his fingers biting into them, pulling John closer to him. Something bloomed in John, like he finally recognized something deep down. The kiss broke, both men staring at their partner.

“Are we…?”

“Yes.” Sherlock kissed him again to confirm before taking his hand and pulling him into their now shared bedroom. Even though they hadn’t had sex since that first night, Sherlock still crawled into John’s bed and sometimes they snuggled the night away, but this… Well, this would make it officially _theirs._

They started kissing again, open mouths and soft noises, John slowly shifting on top of Sherlock’s body, with Sherlock’s hands seemingly everywhere. John rolled against him, melted into him, becoming him. John pressed Sherlock down, breaking the connection at their lips. He slowly unbuttoned Sherlock’s shirt and pushing his back, the fabric slipping in his fingers. Sherlock shifted his body and his arms fell free. Sherlock was staring at him, a half smirk resting on his swollen lips. John touched his face and nibbled a trail from the peak of his cheekbone to his chest, relishing in the feeling of it rising and falling unevenly against his worship. John kissed the centre of his chest, and both of his nipples, giving each a swipe of tongue and a soft bite. Sherlock’s reactions were beautiful, that almost alien face of his became slack before seizing in a pike of arousal. _Oh, God he was beautiful_. Keeping eye contact with the green-blue orbs above him, John nuzzled the sensitive parts of Sherlock’s stomach and abdomen. Sherlock’s slender fingers were knotting themselves in John’s hair. It was long enough to be physically grabbed. Perhaps he should cut it…

“John, now is not the time to think…” Sherlock chastised, his smirk full. John huffed and moved down, his fingers now unbuttoning Sherlock’s trousers. John watched the top of Sherlock’s tongue wet his lips, a movement John so often did it was like he was looking in mirror. Sherlock lifted his hips when John began pulling at the trousers down. They too were discarded, and John moved back up, kissing Sherlock’s hips and proceeded to use his teeth to drag down the silky boxers. Sherlock was watching him, his pupils blown so wide with lust that his irises were a mere sliver of blue. He was watching John like he was the only thing in existence, the only purpose Sherlock had in life. Once Sherlock was completely naked, he grabbed Sherlock’s hands and put them on his body. Sherlock made quick work of getting John naked, but he did stop to worship every scar, every flaw of John’s body. He kissed the still sensitive bullet wound very softly, making John inhale sharply.

Once both naked, Sherlock leaned over John and produced a tube of water-based lubricant and a condom, smiling down at him. For so long he had wanted this, and it was finally happening. John leaned up and kissed him gently, just a caress of lips for encouragement. Sherlock pulled back, eyes wide and lips parted, looking almost lost. John took the lubricant and the condom from him and spread his legs slowly. He hadn’t done this before, but the anatomy of it would be fairly simply. Insert tab A into slot B. John looked into those brilliant eyes below him, trying to assess him like Sherlock does, but he got as far as turned on.

“John, if you keep stalling, I will take it that you don’t want this.” Sherlock tried to sound annoyed, but his voice was deeper with lust, but also begging. John smiled and squirted the lubricant over his fingers and around Sherlock’s entrance. The taller man repressed a shiver and his eyes closed, and John ran his free hand down his thigh. He rubbed his fingers against Sherlock, and his other hand was used to relax him. When Sherlock steeled himself and relaxed, John pressed the fingertip of his first finger into him. Sherlock sucked in a breath, moaning softly. John sighed happily, and the rest went in. He thrusted it slowly, making sure that it stayed slow for the time being. Sherlock had shifted and his head was resting on the pillows, so he could watch John.

His vision went slightly blurry when there was a second finger added, and sooner a third. Sherlock had his hand on his erection, stroking it along with John’s slow, gentle thrusts.

“Ready…?” John breathed after Sherlock’s body jerked and his eyes snapped closed. He nodded, not trusting his voice. John’s fingers slid out and he tore the packaging to the condom. His fingers were shaking slightly in anticipation as he rolled it on, and his blood was pounding in his ears and his dick felt like it was throbbing in his hand. With a deep breath, he took Sherlock’s hips in his hands and moves him into a different position. He guided himself in, and they both moaned in unison.

Sherlock looked up at John, looking their gazes, “You are fantastic, John,” he breathed, and John smiled a little, starting to thrust. Sherlock moved his body with John, staring up at him. “As a conductor of light, you are unbeatable.”

John leaned down and kissed him slowly, a gentle slide of lips and tongue. Sherlock was trying to get closer to John, trying to become him. They kissed and caressed as John worshipped and made love to him.

Slowly, the pace picked up. They stopped kissing, taking deep breaths as their bodies rolled. “Sherlock,” he breathed, one hand cupping his face, the other holding his body up as he rolled his hips. Sherlock smiled slightly and pushed him back. John’s dick left his body, but it was quickly back in when Sherlock settled himself in John’s lap and guided him back in. He moaned sharply, the new angle much more satisfying. He rolled his body forward, trying to find the angle that would stimulate his prostate. John was staring up at him, his hands stroking up and down the inside of his thighs, fingers just brushing his scrotum. When Sherlock gasped, John moved one hand in to fondle. Sherlock arched forward, which coincidently was the right angle and he almost came there. He started to stroke himself, arching himself and jerked sharply, stimulation and pleasure bubbling low in his abdomen. John was close, and the way Sherlock was moving, and the heat in his gaze whenever they met.

“John… John, I…” Sherlock panted above him, his hand going faster and faster, until he stopped moving and with a loud moan, he finished himself off, his orgasm passing through him and leaving him over John’s torso. The contractions around John had him there, and he cried out softly as he came. They rolled through it together in waves, and eventually it was over. Sherlock pulled off and took the condom off John. “Shower?” he offered, smiling tiredly at him.

“When I can move,” John laughed softly, wiping his forehead. “I didn’t know I could do that again.”

“What, anal sex?”

“Sex in general.” John laughed again. “I hadn’t slept with anyoneafter the war. The only experiences like that was drunk blow jobs and emotional handjobs,”

“Well, I’m glad I was your first,” Sherlock was smiling now. “I’ll see you soon.” He walked off with only a slight limp. John knew he was smiling like an idiot when he eventually got into the bathroom. The water was running and John could just see Sherlock’s silhouette standing beneath the water. He drew back the curtain and stepped in. Sherlock turned when the curtain closed and he cupped John’s face to kiss him softly, the warm water rolling down his skin and onto John’s.

“I would have never thought sex could make you this… Well, human,” John commented when they broke apart.

Sherlock snorted. “It’s because I shut down my mind in order to concentrate on one subject. That one subject is you.”

“I think that’s sweet, Sherlock,” John laughed, dizzy with love and orgasm. “And you are brilliant for inspiration.”

*

John had _A Scandal in Belgravia_ finished by the end of the month, and he and Sherlock were in a very sexual relationship. During the first two weeks, they only ever had sex after a case, to wear off the adrenaline and sometimes the frustration of dealing with Lestrade. Now, it just happened whenever they were both horny, really. Handjobs in the shower, blowjobs when half-asleep, slow lovemaking in the early morning hours, as the sun rose and bathed Sherlock’s alabaster skin in golden light.

John wanted to tell him that he loved him, but they had only known each other seven months at this point. How could he tell his best friend-slash-lover-slash-still mad as fuck flatmate that he had fallen in love with him? Was there a way? ‘Hey, Sherlock, I think I fell in love with you when you broke into my flat in September,’ or ‘Thanks for dealing with my average stupidity, and I think that’s what makes me love you.” Yeah, Watson, that’s exactly how he wants to hear it. Actually, John’s pretty sure Sherlock doesn’t want to hear it at all. Ever.

“Why isn’t Lestrade bothering us? Is it because we aren’t currently having intercourse?” Sherlock whined from the lounge, again lying in his ‘five year old having a tantrum’ pose. Lestrade seemed to have sex senses and always texted John while he and Sherlock were having sex. It was awkward when John and Sherlock turned up, looking debauched and slightly angry. Lestrade usually blushed and avoided John’s eyes. Sally tsked in disapproval and Anderson looked sick.

“Or maybe there are no cases,” John sighed. “There isn’t a murder in London _every_ day, Sherlock.”

“Irrelevant,” Sherlock said, waving a hand dismissively. “Even a meagre robbery would be enough.”

“Robbery isn’t Greg’s division,” John turned to him, face stiff but eyes fond. “I know you’re bored—” Sherlock scoffed, “—But for once, try and turn that brain of yours off.”

“You know I only do that when I am aroused,” Sherlock tilted his head to face him.

“You’re impossible,” John groaned, rubbing his face. “I’m 42, Sherlock, I don’t have your sex drive anymore.”

“I would have thought all the years you didn’t have sex, you could make up for now.”

“The body doesn’t work like that,”

“Well, it should.”

John went to reply but thankfully, his phone started buzzing. Sherlock sat up like an alert dog, his lips twisting into a smile. John unlocked his phone, and read the message.

“Case. Looks like a triple suicide, but you’ll probably tell us it’s murder. Lexington. Hope you’re not busy,” John read aloud, and Sherlock was up, grabbing his coat. He was out the door before John got the chance to grab his notepad. He mainly took it now to put useful dot points from Sherlock’s deductions, but writing them in full usually helped Greg, who still ignored Sherlock like he didn’t even exist. Sighing, he walked out of the flat and locked the door. Sherlock was waiting for him on the pavement, and flagged a taxi.

As they were driving to the address in Lexington, John finally decided to ask the question that was nagging at him.

“Why does Greg ignore you?” John murmured, twisting his hands in his lap. He didn’t receive an answer.

*

“Thank Christ.” Greg looked deflated when Sherlock and John finally arrived. “They’re uncontrollable, I swear to God.”

“Well, perhaps if the Yard didn’t hire imbeciles…” Sherlock snapped, storming off ahead. John just sighed and shook his head. As they followed, Greg gave him a basic rundown of the scene.

“A bunch of kids found them at about 2. We’ve got them on possession of illegal substances.”

“So, a bunch of stoned teenagers found some dead bodies, and they still called the cops? Too much dope killed their brain cells,”

“It’s actually good they did, otherwise no one would have found them,”

“Did you say triple suicide? Like a suicide pact?”

“That’s what Anderson thinks, but we know how much you trust his word,” Greg’s voice trailed off when they got to the bodies. The worst thing about them was that they were decomposing, suggesting that they had been there at least a month or so. John leant down over one of the bodies - a female, going by the hair. Her wrists and elbows were slashed, and her blood had stained the underpass concrete. Sherlock picked up the arm of one of the other bodies.

“There are no sharp objects here, no razor blades, knifes, scissors, nothing that they all could have used to cut into their veins,” Sherlock said, standing and stepping over to the blood.

“There’s no suicide weapon,” John relayed to Greg, who was standing nearby.

“So, it is a murder?”

Sherlock and John met each other’s gaze and Sherlock gave a slight nod. “Yes, it is.” John replied.

“Apart from the lack of sharp object, how do you know?”

Sherlock looked happy that he could finally blurt out everything he knew. John was ready to write, and he was smiling very lightly at him. “You will find bruises on all of their arms, where they were held as their wrists and elbows were slashed. Also, one of them had a gag, which is also missing, as one of them has strands of thread caught in their teeth. This was not a planned murder, so we are looking for a psychopath, who takes his weapons as a trophy. It probably hasn’t been cleaned of the blood.”

As John was writing down Sherlock’s findings his chest started to hurt, a small flicker of pain near his gunshot wound, which started to spread across to his heart. And then it was burning, flames licking up over his chest and across his shoulders, down his arms and curling around his heart. John dropped the notepad and took a few deep breaths, but even breathing hurt. Sherlock looked up as John began to clutch at his chest and for once, abandoned the work and raced over to him.

“John?” He held up John’s face, eyes dancing everywhere, the first time John had seen him panicked. John winced in pain as the burning started again. “John, oh God, you better not be having a heart attack...”

“It’s not…” John tried to say, but he cried out as the burning came again, like in waves. His heart was pumping hard against his chest, and he hurt so much that we thought it was trying to break through every one of his bones.

“We need an ambulance!” he faintly heard Greg snap to nearby officers. He came over to John, just by Sherlock. “John, stay with me, okay?”

“I’m… I’m fine…” John panted, and he gritted his teeth this time through pain. No, he really wasn’t fine, but this wasn’t about him, they needed to solve the murder.

“John, I’m going to need you to keep your eyes open,” Greg was now starting to sound far away. Ah, his body was reacting to the pain and going into lockdown. And John wasn’t fighting it.

“John,” Sherlock’s voice joined Greg’s, and he sounded frightened. He sounded _scared. No, no love, don't be scared for me. I'm fine, I really am_.  “John, listen to Lestrade. Keep your eyes open. You’re in a lot of pain, but keep your eyes open.”

John was trying, he really was, but he felt like his chest was on fire. He just wanted to sleep through it. He was just going to rest his eyes for a little bit, only until the pain was gone…

“John, don’t,” Greg growled, gripping his upper arm in an attempt to keep him conscious. “Keep them open, come on mate, listen to me, you can’t go to sleep!”

“John, _please_.” Sherlock’s voice still sounded so far away, but he could feel his hands on his face, and wet patches. He wasn't sure if it was his own, or Greg's, or Sherlock's. He knew he was right there, and if he could just open his eyes… “You are not going to die on me because I love you, John. You have been fighting for this long; do not give up on me. Do you hear me? You've always listened before, and I am not going to watch you die. I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you. I know you can hear me, and _I love you, John_. Don’t go.”

John went to sleep.

*

He woke up, groggy, a few days later. Sitting in his room wasn’t Sherlock, but Greg. He looked tired, but when he saw John’s eyes, he grinned in that boyish way of his.

“Hey there, mate.” He sounded relieved. “Good to see you’re awake.”

“What day is it…?”

“It’s Thursday. You’ve been out three days.”

“Was it a heart attack?” John knew it wasn’t. He was a doctor and knew the signs.

“They have no idea what it was.” Greg pulled his chair closer to him. “They admitted you and just let you sleep through it. How do you, uh, how do you feel?”

“Other than the fact that I just slept for 72 hours, I’m fine.” John rubbed his eyes and sat up slowly.

“Oh, the case was solved,” Greg smiled, now looking relieved. “It was one of the kids who found the bodies. The wounds had traced of dried marijuana from the scissors they used to cut it up. The kid had schizophrenia, and the hallucinations from the smoking and the schizophrenia had him convinced he was killing demons. He hadn’t even realised he’d done it. I don’t think he even knows now.”

John’s heart sank. Sherlock hadn’t come and seen him at all; he was too busy with the case. The work was always much more important than John. “Well, at least it was solved. Poor kid.”

“Yeah.” Greg yawned and arched his back, cracking his spine.

“How long have you been here?”

“I think I slept here, so about 16 hours or something.”

“Go home, Greg,” John smiled at him. At least he had a friend that would put him in front of his job. “I’ll text you when I get home, okay?”

“You sure?”

“You look like shit, mate,” John laughed. “Probably worse than me. Go home.”

“Yeah, yeah, alright.” Greg pushed back his chair.

“Bye, Greg, have a good one.” John leaned back into his pillows, seeing a nurse coming down the hall.

“You too, John.” Greg picked up his bag and smiled at the nurse who came in. She smiled sweetly at John.

“How are you feeling, Doctor Watson?” Her voice was kind and motherly, even though she was only around 5 years older than John. He smiled kindly at her.

“A bit groggy, but there’s no pain.”

“That’s good.” She checked his IV and heart monitor, then sat down next to him in Greg’s abandoned chair and took his blood pressure. “You gave the Detective Inspector quite a fright. He was barking orders at our staff like they were his officers.”

“Um, do you know if I had any other visitors?”

“Well, we notified your sister, so she came in and stayed with you until the DI came and replaced her,” the nurse said, looking satisfied with his blood pressure. “But other than that.. no, not that I can recall. Why, is there someone important we forgot to notify?”

“No, no, Harry and Greg is fine, just… Fine.” John’s heart sank even lower.

“Well, you look good to go,” she smiled again, standing. “I’ll get the forms for you to sign and you’re free.” She left after removing the tubes from his hand, returning when John had finishing dressing. He signed the forms and thanked her, before checking out of the hospital and taking a taxi back to 182. He paid the cabbie and steeled himself. He opened the doors and walked up the stairs.

The violin music winding down the stairs was mournful and unfamiliar. John didn’t recognise the piece, but he was almost content to stand downstairs and listen to it - somehow he knew that if he went up there, it would stop. But still he went up. Sherlock was standing by the window, back to the door, his violin poised perfectly. Sherlock’s eyes were closed as he played. John saw his sheet music, and it looked half finished... he was composing. Sherlock was in the flat, composing a melancholy song while John was in hospital. _Oh_.

John waited until the music had stopped before he spoke. “That was beautiful, Sherlock.”

Sherlock froze momentarily, then slowly turned and put the violin back in its case and faced John. “You’re here.”

“Well, yes, I live here, in case you forgot.”

“You didn’t die.”

“If you had come to the hospital at all, then you would know they just let me sleep for three days.” John crossed his arms defensively. Yeah, now he was angry.

“I-John, you’re _here_.” Sherlock sounded mystified. He walked over to him, cupped his face and kissed him. John’s body instantly relaxed into him and he kissed him back. Sherlock’s fingers were shaking slightly against his face. “John, you have to understand… I couldn’t go to the hospital to see you. I couldn’t stand to see you surrounded by machines, and in a hospital bed, not responding to me when I spoke to you. You _have_ to understand, John.”

Warmth spread through John, and he leaned up and kissed him softly. Sherlock instantly reciprocated, his fingers still shaking. When John pulled away he took them both into his own and kissed them too. “I was angry you didn’t come, Sherlock. You solved the case without me, and then you spend the rest of the time here, playing the violin. I bet you didn’t sleep or eat once, did you?”

“I tried,” Sherlock admitted. “But I found I can’t without you.”

“If I end up in hospital again, come and see for yourself that I am okay,” John murmured, kissing his shaking hands again. He laughed a little, “Look at you, getting all emotional over me.”

“It’s disgusting,” Sherlock confirmed, but he didn’t sound like he meant it. “You did something to me, and it’s irreversible.”

“Hm. What could plain, old John Watson do to the incredible Sherlock Holmes?”

“You made me fall in love with you,” Sherlock’s lips moved, but his voice sounded unattached, like it wasn’t coming from him, like it was coming from a radio or a playback tape. John ignored it and kissed Sherlock again, letting himself smile.

“I love you too, Sherlock,” John replied, leaning his forehead against Sherlock’s. Eventually, he got a hold of himself and removed himself from John’s grip.

“Do you want to hear your piece?” he asked, already picking up his violin.

“I don’t have a choice, do I?” John laughed, settling into the couch. Sherlock smiled at him over his shoulder. Turning to face John, he proceeded to play his composition - it was slow and sad, like something one might play at a funeral. John then decided he wanted this played at his funeral. Sherlock still had his eyes closed, but his body was relaxed, none of his earlier tension visible. He was beautiful. Everything about Sherlock Holmes was beautiful. And that’s also when John decided it was time to kill him.

*

 

 

 **The Reichenbach Fall**  
By Arthur Conan Doyle

“I sense that I am not going to like this story,” Sherlock said from his usual spot at John’s shoulder. John smiled softly.

“Probably not, no,” he answered, typing the few opening paragraphs of the _Three Months Earlier_ section. “Although, you are quite brilliant in this one.”

“Aren’t I always?” Sherlock sounded outraged, like John had just called him stupid.

“More so than usual,” John was grinning now. It had been three weeks since the mysterious chest pain debacle, and they only started taking cases again a week ago. They were yet to resume having sex. John tried telling Sherlock his heart was fine, but Sherlock wouldn’t listen.

“This will be your last story,” Sherlock said. “You’re taking longer to write than usual. You don’t want this to finish.”

“In the space of eight and half months, I have published 12 stories. I am one of the fastest-published writers in the country that isn’t a journalist. I’m not stopping for good… just taking a sabbatical.” That was only a minor lie. Nobody could come back from the dead.

“Hmm.” Sherlock didn’t look convinced, but he continued to edit John’s way of writing him, only to have John change it back to its original wording. Eventually Sherlock got bored, knowing that John wouldn’t listen to him. He moved away from John, but he didn’t really pay attention to wait he was doing until he felt hands in between his legs. John’s fingers jerked on the keyboard, but he forced himself to keep writing. He heard Sherlock chuckle from beneath the desk. _Oh, what a dick_. Sherlock’s hand started rubbing him to full hardness, and John had to keep himself occupied with his writing. _Goddammit, Sherlock_. He heard his zipper go down, and Sherlock pulled his erection out from his underwear. He stifled a groan and forced himself to keep writing. He felt hot breath against his dick, and then Sherlock’s tongue. Then Sherlock’s mouth. This time, John did moan. He stopped writing for a minute to get a hold of himself, each of his exhales a small moan, before he started writing again.

Sherlock always gave excellent head; his mouth that usually spat poison could become so soft. His tongue could also do some amazing things, and Sherlock knew every place that made John melt. John was having a hard time keeping himself composed long enough to finish this paragraph, let alone the chapter. “Sherlock…” he groaned, bowing his head forward. Sherlock hummed around him in reply, his fingers now joining in, stroking up and down his shaft, while his tongue worked the head. The arousal was peaking and John was almost there. He started writing again with shaking hands, but it didn’t last long. He leaned back in the chair, one hand going down to Sherlock’s curls, which he clenched as he came. His breathing was hard when Sherlock came back up from under the desk.

“You’re welcome, John,” he smirked after wiping his mouth. John wheezed out a giggle.

“You… You are definitely the worst muse,” John accused, grinning. Sherlock gave him a gentle kiss and left, presumably to clean out his mouth. John watched him go, smiling. He fixed himself up, knowing he had to take a shower later, when it started again. The slow, burning pain near his heart. It wasn’t as intense as last time, but it still hurt enough that John couldn’t move. At least it didn’t hurt to breathe this time around. It had passed by the time Sherlock came back, and he didn’t mention it.

*

 _The Reichenbach Fall_ had been published two weeks ago, critics were already raving about it, and a lot of London seemed to have gone into mourning. Sherlock himself was actually quite pleased John had decided to kill his character, saying that John would no longer be distracted - now there was more time for cases and sex.

But those particular activities weren’t on the cards that night. John came down the stairs, showered and dressed, and grabbed his wallet off the table.

“Where are you going?” Sherlock asked, sitting up straighter in his chair.

“Out for drinks. With Stamford. I told you yesterday.” John went over and pressed a kiss to his lips. “I’ll see you later. I love you.”

“And I you. Don’t come home too drunk, if you please.” Sherlock leaned back, looking disappointed.

“No reason to.” John smiled at him, gave him another kiss and left. He hadn’t seen Stamford in a few months, and he was quite happy Mike had invited him out tonight, for the big last book celebration. He caught a cab to the pub, and embraced Stamford with a quick hug and a smile.

“I am so proud of you, John,” Stamford remarked when he came back with their drinks. “And you look much healthier.”

“Ella was right; writing something did help me,” he laughed, touching his glass to Mike’s and taking a sip. “I just can’t believe they took off like they did.”

“The ending to _Reichenbach_ , with Holmes dead but not actually, Diane called me and told me that it was perfect. She sounded a bit teary.”

“I don’t know if I should leave it there or not, but fans might get into an uproar over the fact I left Sherlock’s fake suicide like that and didn’t write another story,” John grinned.

“I definitely would,” Stamford smiled back, sipping more of his beer. The two friends chattered on about life, and Stamford’s new lady. John was slightly tipsy when he announced his consulting work.

“Working the cases really helped me flesh out the crime scenes in the stories, like method writing,”

“What, you actually were allowed in on cases with the Yard and no one asked questions?”

“Well, in September, Sherlock told me there was this case. You remember the missing Jessica girl a few months back? I helped solve that. Well, Sherlock and I helped solved that case.”

“Sherlock?”

“And y’know, for this whole time I’ve been doing bloody vigilante work, solving cases and shit, and writing stories and shagging my character.”

“John…”

“Best nine months of my life,” John smiled, ignoring Mike’s concerned look. “I feel alive again.”

“John,” Mike sighed, breaking his chatter. “You know Sherlock’s not real, right?”

“Of course he is,” John’s brow furrowed. “I live with him.”

“What did you say the officers names were? The ones who were against you both?”

“Donovan and Anderson.”

“Those are the names of two police detectives that were killed in a failed drugs bust before you went to Afghanistan, John.”

“What are you saying, Mike?”

“Sherlock Holmes is only a character, John, is what I’m saying.” Mike put down his glass, looking alarmed. “You invented him, got attached and he became real... for you, at least.” John could feel his world crashing around him, could hear it in his ears. The last nine months of his life had been a complete lie. Another symptom of his PTSD.

“That would explain why Anderson and Donovan interacted with him and not Lestrade…” he murmured. “Um, Mike, I’m sorry, but I have to…” He got up and walked off, leaving half of his beer and gaining a slight limp. He took a cab home, and heaved himself up the stairs. There was a buzzing in his ears, and he felt sort of unattached, like he was floating above his body but still seeing everything through his eyes. Sherlock was waiting for him, looking pale and emotionless.

“This was all fake, wasn’t it?” John asked, voice small.

“I’m afraid so,” Sherlock answered, his baritone voice cold, like the day he came to the flat. The day John made him real. “The only things real about these last few months were your stories and you working the cases.”

“How did… Anderson and Donovan…?”

“Your subconscious created them, to give the illusion I existed,”

“But… I’ve felt you…”

“John, you heard what you wanted to and felt what you wanted to,” Sherlock’s face softened. “I need you to wake up.”

The buzzing in his ears got louder, and timed itself with his heartbeat. “Wh-What?”

“John, wake up,” The world around him began to fade, and Sherlock with it. “Please, John, don’t leave me. I know I left you for all those years, and I regret it more than anything I have done in my life. We were just starting to reform our friendship. John, I love you as I have never loved another. Please, don’t die. Three years without you were hard enough, and the 28 before I even met you. I will not live without you, John. Wake up.”

“Sherlock, I don’t understand…”

“I love you…” Sherlock faded with the rest of the world, and then everything went black.

*

The soft beeping of the heart monitor was the first thing John heard as he slowly opened his eyes to the stark white roof. His muscles felt stiff from being stuck in the same position, and he turned his head to one side and met the cold grey gaze that could only belong to Mycroft Holmes. He was actually surprised with himself that he remembered who he was.

“Hello, John.” His crisp voice was only slightly soft, and further inspection showed that he looked relieved. “Welcome back.”

“Mycroft…” his voice was hoarse. Instantly, there was a cup of water at his side.

“Your nurse shall be here soon.” Mycroft stood, brushing down his suit, which was actually wrinkled, meaning Mycroft had been here for more than a day. _Shit..._ John's heart went out to him; well it would have, but his chest just hurt so much. “I should be back in a few days. The Detective Inspector and your sister shall be notified. Expect Sherlock in an hour.”

“N-No!” John protested, heart seizing. “Don’t… No, don’t let him in…”

Mycroft looked upset for a few seconds, before his face flattened and became stony. “Of course. May I enquire as to why?”

“He’s not real… So he wouldn’t come anyway…” John muttered, falling back into his pillows. Mycroft nodded once and briskly walked out the door, leaving John to his nurses.

At 221b, Sherlock was lying on the lounge, fingers pressed beneath his chin. He was focusing on keeping his breathing regular and feeling the nicotine passed through him. His eyes flew open when his phone vibrated next to him. He dropped his hands and picked it up.

 _John has woken up._ **– MH Sent at 4:09pm**

John was awake. Nine months after the accident, nine months in an induced coma, John had woken up just like Sherlock pleaded with him to do. Relief rushed through him, something that never happened, albeit once before in his life, when John forgave him, and hugged him like he was never letting him go again. That was what this relief felt like. 

 _When?_ **  
SH Sent at 4:09pm**

 _Not 15 minutes ago. I do believe they will be moving him to the general ward._ **– MH Sent at 4:10pm**

_Will you tell me when they do? I need to see him awake for myself._  
**SH Sent at 4:11pm**

_No._ – **MH Sent at 4:11pm**

_You will not deny me this, Mycroft._  
**SH Sent at 4:12pm**

_He has requested not to see you, Sherlock._ – **MH Sent at 4:15pm**

 _He believes that you do not exist._ – **MH** **Sent at 4:20pm**

 _His coma dream must have been extensive_. – **MH Sent at 4:23pm**

 _He has been moved to general. Detective Inspector Lestrade is with him. Be delicate._ – **MH Sent at 6:03pm**

Sherlock was out the door the minute he read the message, and en route to St. Barts. He tried to keep himself calm as he thought through every scenario, and only one was positive. He paid the driver and went inside. Some nurses smiled warmly at him, but they were only the ones who had been with John at some point in the last nine months and two days.

He caught sight of one of the nurses he recognised and walked quickly up to her. “I have been told they moved John Watson.” She smiled happily at him, the news obviously having a positive effect on her. This nurse reminded him of Mrs Hudson, and it made him slightly more accommodating. “Do you know which room he is in?”

“Yes, he’s in the general ward, room 189.”

“Thank you,” Sherlock smiled at her. He walked off down the hall; the closer he got, the clearer he heard Lestrade’s voice, making terrible jokes, and John’s soft chuckles. Sherlock felt his breath catch in his throat, and he slowly walked to the door. Lestrade looked up and smiled, which made John turn and look at him. The slight smile on his face faded, and he paled, making his almost grey skin look greyer.

“Greg… Can you…” John sounded sick now, and he looked away from Sherlock. Lestrade swallowed and got up. He took Sherlock away, further down the hall.

“He can’t see you, Sherlock,”

“Of course he can, Lestrade,” Sherlock protested. “He is my best friend. I stayed with him the longest. Of course he can see me!”

“He… Look, during his coma, he created a new world for himself. He was a writer. He wrote about you, like the blog… And in the dream his character, you, came to life. As he was waking up, he was told you weren’t real. He still… I think he’s scared that you’re not real now, that he’s still asleep.”

“Did you tell him what happened?”

“He doesn’t want to know… I think he’ll want to hear it from you when… When we convince him that he’s awake.”

“I want to stay with him while he sleeps,” Sherlock said, voice losing its edge.

“Sherlock, I don’t…”

“Lestrade, if it were Mycroft who was requesting not to see you, would you not defy him?”

Lestrade sighed and nodded. “I would.”

“Which is why I have to stay with him,” Sherlock met Lestrade’s eyes.

“I’ll tell Mycroft where you are tonight,”

“I’m sure he knows,” Sherlock closed his eyes, almost in relief. “Text me when he goes to sleep.” Sherlock swept off down the hall, and he decided that now was a good time to start smoking again. He went out of his paid-off area and bought a pack - enough to last him the rest of the evening.

When he made it back to Barts, it was dark. Sherlock sat outside in the cold and smoked two cigarettes before he received a text. He went back inside, avoiding the crying children and the tired parents. He walked into John’s room as one of the nurses left. She half-smiled at him, and let them be alone. Sherlock closed the door behind her, and walked over to John’s bed. He sat in the uncomfortable plastic chair that he had sat in for days on end. He slowly took John’s hand and kissed it softly. He allowed himself to be sentimental here, where Mycroft had no surveillance.

“I know that you don’t believe that I am real, John,” Sherlock said, his voice soft, “but I need to assure you that I am, and I going to wait for you to notice that I am here, waiting, like I have been. I love you, John, and I will even when you yourself fall in love and get married. And I will wait for you, and still value this friendship we have, even if it fades.”

*

John stayed in hospital for a week and half. It wasn’t until the day he was discharged that he agreed to see Sherlock. And that was only after he finally convinced himself that Sherlock had to be real. Harry had talked about him when he visited on Wednesday, prattling on about how Sherlock never left his side. He asked her what had happened to him, but she just said that was a story she couldn’t tell.

So at precisely 11:07am, Sherlock came into his room, all dark curls and coat and beautiful, pale skin. Exactly as John remembered, but he never remembered him looking so relieved in his life, not even when he forgave Sherlock after his fake death and three year absence.

“Hey, Sherlock,” John sat himself up, smiling faintly. “Um… You’d better sit down.”

“Hello,” Sherlock replied, taking the seat John indicated. He folded his hands in his lap, his eyes a shade of light green today.

“I’m sorry I wouldn’t let you in. The dream I had whilst in a coma… It felt more real than this… Because of some, um… Certain things, it hurt to see you.”

“I heard about the minor details of the dream,” Sherlock said, steepling his his fingers and bringing them up to his lips.

“Well, I can trust you with more… We, um, in the dream, we… Had quite the relationship.”

“I don’t understand what you’re trying to say, John. Are you implying that in your dream, our relationship was sexual?”

“It sounds better when you say it, but yes.” John was blushing.

“Is it because of the nature of our relationship and then being told that I did not exist cause you to believe that I was not a real person?”

“Yes, I guess that’s how to put it.”

“Why sexual?”

“Um, I was told that… In coma dreams, it takes things from your subconscious and what you hear in the outside makes the dream…”

Understanding dawned on Sherlock’s face. “Oh.”

“Yeah.” John was blushing deeply.

“Oh.” Sherlock took a deep breath. “Well that makes my certain… Confessions I made during your coma a lot easier to live with.”

“And now that that is off my chest, tell me what happened that got me here.”

“You were shot while on a case, entirely by accident,” Sherlock leaned forward slightly. “You have a new scar near your one from Afghanistan. You were bleeding out, the bullet had lodged itself in your aorta, and you went into cardiac arrest. You… were technically dead for 2 minutes and 45 seconds. Those were the worst moments of my life, John. They put you into a coma after the surgery, and you were on life support for three weeks. You almost died twice during that time, and the idiotic doctors still cannot explain why.”

“Harry said you were here pretty much every day,” John said, absentmindedly rubbing his shoulder.

“I was,” Sherlock confirmed. “Lestrade refused to give me cases, so I stayed here with you, asking you to wake up.”

“I heard you,” John looked down. “While I was sleeping in the dream, I heard it. Eventually, I heard you telling me not to die.”

“I told you that many times, John.” John reached out and took Sherlock’s hands.

“Look, Sherlock, I…” He was cut off when Sherlock kissed him slowly and gently. John’s heart began to race in his chest, and he was glad he was no longer on machines. John kissed him back, relaxing slowly. They only broke apart when the motherly nurse came in, smiling happily at them both. She reminded John of the nurse in his dream.

“You’re free to go, John,” she smiled, handing the clipboard with the appropriate paperwork. John signed them quickly and smiled at her.

“Thanks very much.”

“Oh, and Doctor Reeves wants to see you in a week, about your heart.”

“I’ll be here.” He took Sherlock’s hand, which was hanging at his side. Sherlock’s face softened as he looked down at him, and they walked out of the hospital. Sherlock flagged down a taxi on the street outside.

“Where to, blokes?” the driver asked, looking at them from the rear view mirror.

“221B Baker Street,” John replied, slowly beginning to grin.

*

_fin_

**Author's Note:**

> Based off this post: http://bbcsherlockftw.tumblr.com/post/34345024856/deastrumquodvicis-gagalock-inspired-by-ruby


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